


Time To Live Our Lives

by Dirty_Corza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M, Magic Coat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirty_Corza/pseuds/Dirty_Corza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's coat is more than just a coat, and John is more than just a blogger.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Yes. This coat is exactly what you desire. It would set you apart, set you above, and in it, I promise you, you will find greatness. But, as any gift I give, it comes with a catch. This coat will only protect you for as long as you are faithful to it and it alone. If you find another protector, this coat will betray you as easily as a cloud passes over the face of the sun in midwinter.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Now, master Holmes, have we a deal?” She held out the coat to him, almost turning away before he scrambled to his feet, hurrying to take the heavy cloth in his arms.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Yes. We have a deal.” </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Time To Live Our Lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Random_Nexus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/gifts).



> A fill for Random Nexus' prompt found on the kinkmeme here: http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6327.html?thread=12953271#t12953271
> 
> Progressive chapters will have spoilers for various episodes, as I am staying relatively close to canon. Each chapter will be titled based on the episode included.

Sherlock had often gotten beat up for being different, for being smarter than others, skinnier than others. Even though he gave as good as he got, he couldn't stop them from coming after him. When he hit puberty before the other boys, starting with a growth spurt that left him awkward and lanky, things got so violent that he, proud as he was, avoided school and the boys that tormented him so.

One day, while skipping class, he came across an old woman pushing a cart of odds and ends clearly found in the trash. She studied him for a moment where he sat just inside an alley before her face lit up with a grin. 

“You have something you want, don't you?” Her voice was soft, melodious, nothing like he expected. All Sherlock could do was nod in response. “Something special, something great. Something to make people respect you, fear you, desire you. Something to protect you.

“I have just what you need, young master Holmes.” She reached in among the plastic bags in her cart to pull out the most beautiful coat. The sight of it brought a gasp from his lips and made his fingers twitch to hold it.

“Yes. This coat is exactly what you desire. It would set you apart, set you above, and in it, I promise you, you will find greatness. But, as any gift I give, it comes with a catch. This coat will only protect you for as long as you are faithful to it and it alone. If you find another protector, this coat will betray you as easily as a cloud passes over the face of the sun in midwinter.

“Now, master Holmes, have we a deal?” She held out the coat to him, almost turning away before he scrambled to his feet, hurrying to take the heavy cloth in his arms.

“Yes. We have a deal.” 

Her laugh echoed down the alley as she walked away, and moments later when he looked down the street after her, she was nowhere in sight.

\- - -

The coat never faded. It never got singed, or stained, or torn. And in it, he was unstoppable. With a flip of his collar, the bullies were stopped in their tracks. With a swish of the long coat, heads were turned, and when he talked people paid attention. It was a heady experience, marvelous beyond any expectations he'd had for the gift from a strange old woman.

With it wrapped around his slim frame, even Scotland yard let him in, allowing him the ability to create his own unique position. Body parts for experiments were easy to acquire. Life was easy. True, not everyone was so in awe as to not make comments trying to be cruel, but in the warm embrace of his coat, Sherlock found they didn't matter. He found that the barbed replies that flew to the tip of his tongue were beautifully sharp.

Life was a dream come true, his intelligence put to good use and respected, and though he had few friends to speak of, Sherlock found he didn't care. He could be faithful to a coat, for who else was worthy of him? No one could match his mind, and no one cared enough to try to understand him. Shunning the world was easy in the comforting arms of the one who understood you best of all, who protected you, who set you apart for greatness.

Shunning the world was easy when the memories of how the world had betrayed you still plagued your dreams.

\- - -

“What are you doing?” the voice was soft, a hissed whisper John couldn't quite make out.

“A boon. He saved our lives, he deserves something!” The second voice was closer, as if someone was leaning over him as they spoke, though John couldn't seem to move enough to open his eyes.

“You know we cannot simply give gifts!”

“His price has been paid. And I'm not giving much. Just amplifying natural ability.”

“You can't heal his hurt.”

“I'm not. I'm making him a better conductor, in a limited way. It will only work once, but oh, how bright his chosen will shine.”

“The others are coming, I implore you, hurry!” There was the press of soft fingers to his heart, then the feel of sand moving as someone moved away. 

John felt more than heard the second pair of footsteps that came toward him from the opposite direction that the voices had been in. “Wha-” When he tried to speak, the events just before came rushing back with a flood of pain. His shoulder was on fire. 

“Don't move, John. Help is coming, we'll get you out of here in no time. Christ, I don't know what got into you, running toward nowhere in the middle of a firefight. You were the only one hit, though. It's almost like they weren't aiming at us at all.” John was having trouble focusing on the words Bill was saying, though he struggled against the unconsciousness that threatened to overtake him. 

The conversation of moments ago was fading from his mind, taking him with it, and while he was almost certain he'd come back, he was just as certain that he'd never be able to tell anyone about the sand-colored-fabric covered pair he'd been rushing to protect.

“Sorry, can't-” his words were slurred together as his mind faded into blackness before he could hear Bill's response.

\- - -

“You say you saw someone.”

“I did. There were people there, people being shot at, and when I ran to help I got shot.”

“You're so sure of this, John. Why?”

John took a deep breath, gripping the cane tightly. “I know I've forgotten something. Something between running over and waking up with Bill pulling a bullet from my shoulder. I know something happened before he got there, I just can't remember what.”

His therapist gave a sigh, setting down her pencil. “He arrived moments after you went down, John. There was no time for anything else, and no one else saw anyone for you to run to. It's not uncommon for soldiers to have delusions in the desert and-”

“It's also not uncommon for me to walk out right about now, is it?” He stood, wincing slightly as he made his careful, limping way to the door, ignoring her words as he left.

This was the routine of their sessions. She'd write on her pad “still delusional” or “trust issues” and he'd walk out without a second glance. Between this and the physical therapist that was far too optimistic -“I'm sure we'll get you back to being able to perform surgeries, John!” he'd said last time- he was fed up with therapists as a whole, no matter how well meaning. 

What he needed, what he really needed, was a fresh start. No one who'd question his sanity, or feel obligated to give him false hopes. If he could find just one person who'd ignore his limp, or at least not stare all the time, and just enjoy him as a person, he could give them the world.

He paused as the thought crossed his mind, a frown forming on his face. It was like a whisper he'd heard months ago, a forgotten voice, a memory he couldn't quite grasp at the edge of his mind. He looked down at his shoulder with a frown before shaking his head and moving on. 

He was beginning to accept that those seconds between being shot and Bill getting to his side would always be forgotten.

\- - -

Sherlock had reached a plateau. Drugs had been fun, for a while; his experiments kept his mind busy, for the moment; and the cases were solved effortlessly, though the praise he got was rarer and rarer as time went by. He knew there were those that didn't trust him, but he didn't care. He told himself over and over that it didn't matter, the vile rumors they tried to start couldn't hurt him. The collar of his coat was flipped up more often now, a barrier between him and the world; even in summer he'd find an excuse to wear it, to revel in the comfort it afforded him.

Part of him, a small traitorous part of him, wanted more. A voice to whisper praises in his ear, warm arms to wrap around him and hold him close. He knew it was a dangerous path, wanting something like that. His dreams of whispered praises were turned nightmares by the echos of a warning from years past. The old woman's face, her beautiful, youthful voice, once he had fallen asleep playing over the memory of her promises, a lullaby that calmed him when nothing else could. Now, though, the echos of it haunted his every step. Each offer of friendship was rejected with barbed words meant to hurt.

It was all he had, being alone. After all, alone protected him when others had failed.

He was beginning to doubt those words, but every time his hands reached for that marvelous coat he was reminded of why he had to keep his faith in them. He was growing a name for himself, higher and higher he went. He reached new heights with every murder solved, but everyone knew the higher they climbed, the harder they fell. His fall would be very painful indeed.

\- - -

“John, John Watson?” A vaguely familiar voice called out to him as he left his latest failed therapy session. He was more than a little bit tempted not to turn around at all. But they kept on, and with a stiff smile he turned to shake his hand.

“It's me, Mike Stamford, we went to school together!”

“Ah, right.” John nodded, the name did ring a bell, but it had been ages since he'd seen the man. Before he'd signed up for the RAMC, in fact. He didn't much pay attention to the small talk as they got coffee, or while they sipped it on a bench outside their old school. His mind was back in Afghanistan, with hot sand and glaring sun, and gunshots as loud as the echo in his head when Mike laughed at his perfectly reasonable statement. “What?”

“You're the second person to ask me that today.”

“Who was the first?”

Mike met that with a grin, “Just you wait till you meet him.”

The walk back inside was uneventful. John, try as he might to get Mike to reveal anything about this man he'd be meeting. He just laughed and said “wait and see” and John wasn't sure if any man would be worth that sort of hype. There couldn't be people who lived up to the wait and see. Visiting three separate continents, John still hadn't met anyone who he'd say qualified.

Then they walked into the room that contained Sherlock Holmes. He could almost feel it, the man's gaze as he looked him over, and Christ, if Mike hadn't been in the room- But he was and those things hadn't happened. Instead he had been floored once again when he found out what the gaze meant: that Sherlock Holmes, his new flatmate, knew everything there was to know about him. He hardly knew what to say, hardly remembered the proper questions to ask, like for the brilliant man's name, or the address of the flat it was proposed they share. 

Barely had he managed to get his brain working properly again when Sherlock was gone, and he was left in the lab staring flabbergasted at Mike while he dealt with the aftershocks. “That was...” 

Mike grinned at him, “Wasn't it? I think he'll be good for you.” With a slight chuckle, he nodded toward the door. “Fancy a ride to Baker Street?”

“Yes, that'd be rather nice, actually.” John gave Mike a relieved smile, though it turned to a grin as he remembered a similar conversation from years past. “This is just like when you set me up with Mary. You stood there with a smug grin on your face while we were introduced.”

Mike just gave a small wink as he continued walking. “No idea what you're talking about, John!”

“Forever the matchmaker.” John sighed as he rolled his eyes, the grin never fading from his face.

\- - -

John didn't know what he'd expected to find in Baker Street. Not a mess, not a kindly landlady, but most certainly he'd expected to find Sherlock in all his breathtaking glory. Find him he did, and much else besides. It was almost endearing, the mess, science experiments, all of it. Almost. 

Just like it was almost shocking that Sherlock had insured their landlady's old husband got the death penalty. 

There was just something about Sherlock that John could tell the mess was from laziness, not eccentricity, and that the landlady likely wouldn't be their landlady if she hadn't owed Sherlock a favor. The way he held himself, proud, aloof, and as much as it tempted John to punch him in the face, something stopped him. Something about the way that face looked, those cheekbones with the collar of his coat turned up, it stilled his hand, gave him pause. Because for all of this to be true, there had to be something more.

And then came the police car, and being invited along for a murder investigation, and John knew what it was. In an instant he knew what kept his hand at his side, and what had brought him to the flat after Sherlock had left Bart's. It wasn't the fact he was stunning, or that Mike had introduced them, it was the fact that Sherlock, for all his flaws, was breathtakingly intelligent.

Watching him at the murder scene was like watching a master artist at work. Even his insults were carefully crafted barbs of information. It was amazing. Like nothing John had seen before. And when Sherlock left him stranded at the scene, cane and all, he'd almost decided it was too much.

There was something about being kidnapped, though, that gave him pause. This was a man everyone warned him against, that some were willing to let him name a figure just for information on him. And for all his flaws, he'd been right. John missed being needed, missed the action Afghanistan had afforded him. 

In Sherlock, he found enough danger and excitement to last a lifetime, with a side of casual annoyance to go along with it.

John doubted he'd ever get enough.

\- - -

Sherlock hadn't found the case quickly. Bright pink, but well stashed. So well, he wasn't really surprised the police hadn't found it. In fact, he'd almost missed it, he would have, if there hadn't been that nagging voice in the back of his head reminding him f John. Of how easily the words “Brilliant” and “amazing” flowed from his lips, how good they sounded in Sherlock's ears. The thought had given him the final push of adrenaline and there it was, the pink case, and, when Sherlock got back to the flat to search it, the lack of phone.

It was perfect- almost. One thing was missing. John. He fired off one text, two. The anticipation was building as he waited. John would see, he would have to see, and then he'd hear it again. Beautiful words from beautiful lips, and the high better than the one brought on by the nicotine patches he'd pressed to his arm. 

John was better than he'd hoped. He didn't worship him like the poor girl at Bart's, he thought for himself, and Sherlock didn't have to spell out every detail for him. He wasn't normal. He didn't think Sherlock was the killer, no, Sherlock had seen it as John's brain went through the details and came up with the right answer before Sherlock had even mentioned it.

It was unlike anything else. John had come prepared for his usual type of danger, Sherlock didn't miss the tells of a gun shoved down the back of his trousers. He had apparently turned down Mycroft's offer for money, and, though slightly exasperated when asked for his phone, he'd handed it over without more than a heavy sigh. It wasn't worship, it wasn't disdain, it was trust. Trust, and a ready audience, both things Sherlock was more than a little certain he'd never seen directed at him before.

If he wasn't careful, he had a feeling he'd get very attached to John very quickly.

\- - -

Sherlock was... John didn't know what to make of him, as they sat down for a dinner Sherlock wasn't even going to pretend to eat. Everyone owed him a favor. Everyone knew him through his work. Everyone, but John. Mike probably owed him one for something trivial, and had only met him becomes of the experiments he did at Bart's, sometimes, no doubt, related to this or that case when his home equipment wasn't good enough. He was clearly the type to be able to weasel his way into all sorts of situations.

And then there was John. He didn't owe Sherlock anything. There was no reason for Sherlock to talk to him, what did he have that Sherlock needed? A skull people wouldn't give funny looks in public? No, the way Sherlock said it made John think the man had been speaking from experience. An audience? Maybe, but to John that seemed unlikely. Sherlock had an active audience everywhere. For a case like this, it was a phone-call away with the police, he had no doubt Lestrade would be more than happy to listen to Sherlock prattle on if he thought it would get the case solved.

That only left one think. Something John wasn't sure he wanted to think to closely about. A partner. The umbrella man had asked if he was to expect a happy announcement, as if this alone was enough to make him think Sherlock meant to- and that had been before dinner. And now, Sherlock had practically admitted to being gay, or at least maybe interested in men. Not to mention had accused John's nervous trying to find out what sort of expectations there were of being flirting.

It was infuriating, flattering, and John was thoroughly thrown for a loop. It was clear from the way Sherlock said it that he was interested, that he wanted John to be interested, but there was something holding him back. Watching him leave the restaurant with his coat swishing behind him because there was a break in the case gave John the start to what that might be.

It was, in fact, the work, just as Sherlock had said. After the rush of the chase, as fruitless as it was, John could definitely see the appeal. Almost enough to wonder if the work would mind seeing him on the side.

\- - -

Something was wrong. Sherlock felt it the moment John's face fell when he came face to face with the fact drugs were really a possibility. When the drugs bust stopped being a farce and started having potential. Sherlock could feel it, his brain slowing down, the connections just failing to fall into place as the chatter and noise continued around him. 

Silence, though, brought peace again, and finally the facts fell into place, and there is was, the connection, John's faith in him restored.

It was worse than he'd thought. The final connection -cabbies- the fact the cabbie had won. It was deafening in his ears when he read those three little words.

He wanted to tell John, to announce it all solved, but he found the words wouldn't come. Instead, he was following that unassuming little cabbie, and it terrified him. He was going to find out how the cabbie did it all, and it was just what he always did, but this time Sherlock wasn't so sure it wouldn't end with him dead on the floor, just another body. All the same, he was going with him.

The talk of a fan was chilling. Being noticed, by someone he'd never seen. He knew when he was noticed, and no one was a fan. Molly was smitten, Greg was exasperated, and John was something else entirely. But none of them were fans, not like this, not that would warn about him. This fan was more dangerous than anyone else, especially if they had gotten in this deep. 

He clutched the coat closer to him, shocked when he didn't feel the usual warmth and comfort from its embrace.

“Your coat can't save you now, Mister 'Olmes.” the cabbie said with a grin.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard. It was irrational t think the man was referring t the magical aspect of his coat. He was merely commenting on the way Sherlock griped it. He had to hope that was the case, or he had a feeling he was going to be in worse trouble than taking a little pill.

\- - -

John hadn't given it a second thought. When the phone page refreshed and gave him a new address, he was out the door in a flash. Sherlock had run off, by force or invitation he didn't know, but he did know that the man had been acting more than a little odd. He'd known him a day, and already he was getting gut feelings about him that had proved to be right.

He went as fast as he could praying to the powers that be that he wasn't to late. He was running again, living again, if only for a moment. There was no way he was letting some cabbie take that away from him.

The search of the building was fruitless, no sign of Sherlock inside. He'd almost given up when he saw Sherlock, so close and yet so far, separated by two panes of glass. He could see the pills being held up, hands moving toward lips, and without a second thought, he fired. He didn't even remember much about aiming, just the knowledge that he had to do something to get Sherlock to drop the pills, to snap out of whatever trance he was in, and take out the cabbie.

He only watched Sherlock for a moment after firing the shot, just long enough to see that he had been fast enough, that the man was alive. Once that part of him was satisfied, he hurried out, ducking out a back door, circling around in the alleyways as the sound of sirens came ever closer. Lestrade had made it, thank god. Now he only had to hope that Sherlock was smart enough not to lead them straight to him.

\- - -

The cabbie's words were haunting. A script, Sherlock could tell a script when he heard one. He knew all along, he had almost left it there, but he couldn't. When the challenge was presented, he couldn't just walk away, as much as he had wanted to. When all was said and done, he was left with one name, one little name that meant absolutely nothing to him. Until now.

But that name could wait. He had a hero, someone who made a crack shot through not one but two panes of glass just to save his life. It was heady, it was miraculous, and while talking to Lestrade he realized that it was John. It had to be. Small, unassuming, perfect John.

For once, the idea that the other cops were taking pictures of him with a bright orange blanket on didn't matter. It was his perfect excuse, and he was taking it, when it meant he could see John up close. Ask him about things, and be surprised at the answers. No guilt in John's face, no remorse for taking a life. Just a smile and a joke.

Even after finding out who Mycroft really was, John wasn't too phased. A moment, all it took was a moment, and Sherlock could see how, once processed, John simply accepted it as fact. Just like Sherlock's intelligence, just like the soft kiss Sherlock pressed to his lips in a dark alley. All it took was a moment to process it, and John was fine. 

“Does this mean I'm part of your work, then?”

Sherlock laughed as he heard the question. “I think it's safe to say it does. Okay with that?”

“Oh, God yes.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Would Have Been](https://archiveofourown.org/works/886257) by [Dirty_Corza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirty_Corza/pseuds/Dirty_Corza)




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